tv [untitled] March 4, 2011 8:00am-8:30am PST
school and straight home. guess i haven't been anywhere. everything changes one day. soon i can say i've been somewhere the soon i can go somewhere by air the somewhere you wouldn't dare. going to school will get me somewhere. then you will look back at me with a fake grin because i just told you where i'm going and where i've been. >> because this is a writing community for writers who have been with writers corps for a while and the program is no longer available, i am going to truce them all at once and then they're going to just do their poems. so first i'd like to bring up sandra. sandra? >> hi, how are you, everybody. i home you're enjoying the show
and that -- i'm nervous. so -- i think i will cry. i'm just acting. don't worry. and two years ago i came here at the same place and i was reading poetry, but the difference from then to now is that i couldn't speak english. so i read my poem in spanish and i think i missed a lot of the audience because not everybody can understand or speak stash -- spanish. in restless night that i was thinking how good my professor has been to me. she has given -- given me support without even using hard words. when i'm struggling she holds my hand, letting me know that i
can count on her. whenever i feel sad or share a broken tear, she asked me for a hug and it is there in her arms that i feel protected like nothing that dares to touch me could hurt me. there is a power that grows inside me. when i find myself under her wings. under her wings i am calm. and she calls me mija, as if she were saying don't give unon account of stupid things. don't you see how strong you are? and my pain turns into a sincere smile and my soul doesn't feel hurt any hor. -- more. thank you. [cheers and applause]
>> yay. and next up we have annie. annie yu, i'm sorry. annie yu. >> it's ok. so the poem i'm going to read is book of lives. my name is a book of lives. i press leaves inside, scraps of the city, one crumbled bus ticket, a number -- numb washed with rain, a torn photograph of two little girls. my name settle map of the world. a body of continents and stars. on an airplane i look at the map. flights intersect. travel miles and seas, hours and clouds, a window bird trills by my bed. power lines crisscross streets like threads in the sky. a book of lives is a month of saturdays, a sea-- seahorse
from per ru, perfume at my neck. look inside a red suitcase. you'll find letters to no one, objects found and lost, a plastic white fan, contradictory j. -- jade green, city grids, the last bite of an ice cream cone. these are all my names. i savor these words on the tip of my tongue. a book of lives lived in my right hand. i caught your pen in the other. all the rivers flower into the sea. thank you. [cheers and applause] >> next up is -- next up is marcela ortiz. >> ok. this is the first time i'm reading in front of people. ok. all right.
this is a poem to my mom. you're nothing but a group of coffee klatching women. 19 years and the only image that i can think of what i hearl my mother's voice is rosie the riveter with her hand balled up in a fist and her hand underneath her face. coffee klatching women? a bunch of old grandmothers who sit in sewing sirgles and talk about the best blueberry circles. we banned my mother from the kitchenen -- because of an incident where she had burnt water the the only person who cooked was my father. please keep your peace, mom. yes, my mother say woman but coffee klatching? the term was worse than nails
on the chalk board. oh, yes, a coffee klatching woman who has raised three children and never taking shying from anyone. you sure do act like a coffee klatching women with your boots and jeans on, arriving to run a crew of obnoxious men's, because 50% of the men's brains skiptd -- consist of their oh so glorified junk which doesn't even work right. most of the time. coffee klatching women? sitting around talking nonsense? the same nonsense that finally changed the 19th amendment. yes we can vote. i can see abigail adams sitting and clutching her scorching hot
cup of joe, john adams saying sit down and drink your damn coffee, woman. she really was the brains of the outfit. my mother is overworked, tired, but her still solid body stood hard as a rock. i'm not going to cry, as a tear falls down from her face. don't cry, mom, don't cry. [cheers and applause] >> that was her first time ever. yay! and up next we have indiana telepenova. >> a recipe for water. start with the color magenta, a
burning asphalt, of beach ball sighing out its life, a garden grown on accident after accident, add a father painting shelves on the cove, a pinch of guilt, statues of isabella butter flisse -- butterflies, and extinct alpha betts, a teaspoon of autumn leaves, a shepard playing with the winds, some animal begging for snow. mix vigorously like the mountain mixes up its slopes. preheat the bed of a star to -- 240 light-years away. thank you. and next is -- [cheers and applause]
>> next is robin black. >> hi, robin! >> oh, ok. i had to know. this is called "eviction notice." the police turned us away. 11 years old eating baby food. days warm like the occasional free matsoff from next door. no plates the cups were yoplaits. i stepped on a nail taking my sister through the yard the drinking from beer bottles that tasted like warm quarters the i caught fleas from cookie puss sleeping on my stomk keeping us both warms. at that age i lost the comfort from lies.